poems gigs misc. why don't you EMdC home
Pulse

that pulse injects
the dizzy beam branches

rare notes come
warm to the lips and flooding
through from drift limb-easing beer
flashing
the rainbow resonance

jokers on satisfaction wavelength,
the element of every sense, the pulse
is at once a beat
with a higher glistening
on bare soprano and backs
like every
tangible
saxophone

encrusted sugar-sounds
like multi-coloured
dry jungle wood
snapping as monkeys
bouncing through
like a sweat that shimmers into the air
and smells rattle off steady,
a sparkling, swaying, cape of heart,
sensually charged

but already drumskin smooth
jewels and dancefloor soft faces
shoulders
on to the teeth,
with the cloud cover,
dull, driving through my ribcage,
tight t-shirts from breasts cradling me,
and to the hot decks
and the sax sucked methodically

smoke from cigarettes,
throbbing air
from the criss-cross meshes
on the columns
are of exhalations
enjoyed religiously,
and from this tasty space,
size we all breathe
and yet
the machine
whose exuberant joints each
are a sweetly stale,
softly breathable,
dense the sharp edges
the shower of it are itching untouched
artfully cutting ridges and corrugations
into reaches of my brain;
its bold throat-wetting outline

the DJ is volume,
is all angles
into movements,
is pleasure
here and now
crowd
the dancers,
the drinkers,
there in synco-
pated kicking,
cracking and texture

it is an unusual feeling
and massaging sweets my body
for air to carry forms of it
carved out as if speakers are themselves
into the quickening pulse that make love
back to the energy
with this malleable air
that I find coming from sticks of shape
and force then hurling it towards us
I am inhaling bumpy air

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